


Sunshine

by mudkipwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Weather, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Natural Disasters, News Media, Other, Slow Burn, Storm Chasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: Crowley is a storm chaser. Aziraphale is a weatherman.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BusinessSocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BusinessSocks/gifts), [Habie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habie/gifts).



>>>

Aziraphale beams his brightest smile into the camera.

“And I _do_ hope that you’ll get a chance to get outside tomorrow!” He says. “With all the dreariness lately, _heaven knows_ that we’re due for some sunshine! I think I may soak up some rays myself.”

The blinking, red light just above the camera signals Aziraphale’s attention: _Final moments. Make your closing statement._ He clears his throat. 

“Well, dear ones; it’s been a _delight_ to spend time with you this evening.” He smiles his most heartfelt smile--as if he could see the people to whom he is speaking, and impress upon them how very much each of them matters. 

“As always: stay safe, stay healthy, and stay sane out there! You are loved. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning, bright and early.” 

The spotlights go dim, and the woman behind the teleprompter and camera gives Aziraphale a thumbs-up. 

He sighs, relaxing back into his swivel chair. 

The streamlined chaos of the station buzzes around him: tablet-wielding workers, dancing and weaving around one another; cosmeticians, daubing on thick layers of facial makeup under bright lights; technicians, pinning near-invisible microphones behind ears and on lapels. 

Aziraphale quite enjoys his job at the local weather station. Not only does he get to spend time with some very intelligent people and their tools of research, but he also gets to observe, to analyze, and to interpret this research for everyday people. As a broadcast meteorologist, Aziraphale is a sort of translator: a bridge between scientists and society, communicating between different worlds. Every day, Aziraphale delights in the opportunity to succinctly, politely, and kindly convey the upcoming weather to their loyal listeners. And, every day, he does this with utmost poise and compassion--hoping that his every gesture might, somehow, make their days brighter and hearts warmer, regardless of the upcoming radar.

He is pulled from his thoughts as a young tech assistant walks up to the desk and hands him a tablet. “The station manager would like you to report to his office,” they say, almost sounding not-nervous. 

“Thank you, Michael.” Aziraphale replies warmly, giving the new intern a smile. Despite their obvious anxiety, Michael is professional, and exceptionally smart. He knows that, given the right opportunity, they will rise quickly in station management. 

“Did Mr. L’Arche happen to say when I was expected?” 

“Right away.” 

Aziraphale sighs. It looks like there will not be time for coffee and doughnuts. 

“Very well. Lead on!” 

He rises and follows intern Michael into the hallway. 

It has been many years since Aziraphale first stepped into Celestial Station. Graduating at the top of his class, he had been a promising candidate for any meteorological career. But rather than going into the data analysis field, as many of his professors and colleagues had anticipated, Aziraphale went on to study human relations. After adding degrees in psychology and communications, Aziraphale had gone about searching for a work environment that would allow him to interact with people at a high level. He was not inherently an extrovert, but he delighted in the company of other persons: figuring out what made them tick, and providing them with the support they needed, brought him great joy. To Aziraphale, all people are seedlings just waiting to bloom; they just need some tender, loving care and some sunshine. 

The pair of them come to a standstill in front of the manager’s door. It is a tall, imperious thing, made all of wood and embossed with the letters of _Mr. Gabriel L’Arche; Station Manager._ Michael is shifting their tablet nervously now, and Aziraphale lays a hand on their shoulder. 

“Thank you, my dear. I’ll take it from here, thanks.” 

As Michael hurries away, Aziraphale knocks three times on the hardwood door. 

“Enter.” 

>>>

_ “As always: stay safe, stay healthy, stay sane out there! You are loved.”  _

Anthony J. Crowley clutches the waterproof radio to his ear, feeling the wind and the rain lashing against his face. This is the fourth day he’s been out in the storm, and it’s beginning to feel a  _ whole lot _ like Noah’s Ark. As he crouches against the batter of wind, he cradles the radio to his chest like a lifeline. 

As a storm-chaser, Crowley is typically undaunted by long-term, lonely jobs such as this one. However. The disaster of this particular hurricane is really getting to him: so much destruction, despair, and dreariness. Plus, he  _ really _ could use a pair of dry socks right now. 

_ “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early.”  _

“Shit.” Crowley mutters. 

He taps his radio sharply against his hand, as if trying to squeeze out a few more words, in what knows that it is a lost cause. The sign-off is always the same, and it marks the last of Mr. Fell’s words for the time-being. 

Crowley regrets this. 

Some days, the only thing seeming to keep him going is the voice of local weatherman Aziraphale Fell. He can almost picture his kindly, familiar face, floating before him: big, blue eyes; soft, round cheeks; bright, ice-blonde curls. Despite the cold and the rain, Crowley smiles to himself. Mr. Fell is a fixture of comfort to Crowley: always polite, always cheerful, ever wearing new patterns of dapper tartan. When he is home and not chasing cyclones, Crowley dutifully watches Mr. Fell on his television or computer. He  _ knows  _ that it’s soppy: but he likes to imagine that these messages are made for him specifically by the weatherman. He likes to imagine that each word--warm, tender, affectionate--is being spoken with him in mind. It makes him feel a little less lonely, if only for a moment. 

“Thank you, Mr. Fell.” Cuts in a clipped and professional voice. “Stay tuned for the latest updates on Hurricane Adam after these messages.” 

He growls and tosses the radio aside. 

“Mmm, yeah, I’ll get  _ right  _ on that.  _ Gabe. _ ” 

He shrugs his way deeper into his raincoat, and then, after savoring one last moment of shelter, Crowley heaves himself up and out of the alcove and into the storm. 

It’s not just the weather that’s getting him down; Crowley isn’t a fan of Station Manager Gabriel. And hearing his voice, after the soothing presence of Mr. Fell, adds nothing good to his day. Unlike Aziraphale, Gabriel is a  _ transparent _ phony. His smiles are plastic and expendable, and they often come with unpleasant orders. In fact, if it wasn’t for Crowley’s hope that he might someday run into Mr. Fell at the station, he would have quit his job at Celestial long ago. 

Crowley turns himself sideways against the battery of rain. 

It’s not like he  _ couldn’t _ find good work elsewhere. Crowley knows that he is an outstanding member in his field of meteorology. Not only has he received countless distinguished awards for his work with documenting dangerous weather events and storms; he’s also the most requested and rented-out agent from his station (at, what he is sure, is an exorbitant fee). It’s how he arrived here on this terrible day, documenting Adam in coastal Carolina, for both Gabe at Celestial and Bees from Brimstone.

Sighing, Crowley picks his way carefully down the coastline. 

It’s scattered with uprooted trees and debris. Here and there, he can see the remains of houses, storefronts and furniture. A sodden child’s doll lays mixed in with the garbage, one button eye hanging out wearily. 

When it comes down to it, Crowley does not believe he is anything  _ special. _ No matter what payroll says, he  _ knows _ that he is not made of something unique or special, which other storm-chasers do not or cannot have. He is just someone unafraid to face his death. To put it rather bluntly, Crowley doesn’t mind taking mortal risks when he doesn’t have any surviving family worth the anxiety. He doesn’t feel strange putting his life on the line when he knows that there are few colleagues who would miss him. Anthony J. Crowley has always been a survivor. He pulls himself out of tight spaces, escapes to safe places, if only for a moment. What’s another life-threatening situation like filming a hurricane from Kill Devil Hills to someone like him?

In his pocket, Crowley’s cell phone vibrates. 

Cursing, he searches around for another shelter. His earpiece and microphone will not work well exclusively, given the intensity of the wind. Crowley identifies a half-exposed tree from the side of a crumbling dune. He backs himself up against the curve of the crumbling sand for shelter. 

“Crowley here.” 

_ “Tony!”  _

It’s Station Manager Gabriel. His voice is layered with that false cheerfulness, and it sends a ripple of dread through Crowley’s stomach. It’s bad enough that he has to brush shoulders with Brimstone, too; now, he has  _ two  _ assholes breathing down his neck. 

“I’ve told you before.” Crowley replies, pressing his hand to his ear to muffle the storm. “It’s  _ Anthony J _ .”

_ “Tony.” _ Gabriel repeats. “ _ Where are my reports?”  _

His tone is pleasant enough, but Crowley knows that _something_ must be going on down at the station for the manager himself to call. Briefly, Crowley wonders what might warrant such an occasion.  


“Coming.” he replies shortly. 

Crowley’s been working night and day on this project: measuring the destruction of windstorms and waves, recording statements and soundbites from its displaced victims. So he hasn’t had much ‘free time’ to update his regular report. Because he knows that the data he provides will be submitted to headquarters--where it is analyzed and formatted for presentation--it will eventually end up in Mr. Fell’s hands. So it’s not a part of his job that he takes lightly. 

_ “Well, quit wasting my time on sob-stories and interviews.” _ Gabriel orders.  _ “And get me those clips pronto. We need something to present for the nine-o-clock news.” _

Crowley winces as he imagines Gabriel L’Arche flexing a fist against his immaculate, steel-gray suit. It’s an intimidating thought.

“Right, boss.” Crowley agrees. “I’ll get right on it.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he casts his phone down and closes the call.

_ It’s not ‘wasting time’ to attend to the victims and hear their stories! _ Crowley thinks furiously.  _ Plus, its specifically the ‘crisis’ of Adam that Mx. Beelzebub had asked me to cover! _

He can’t help it if the station managers have a difference of opinion for what kind of media they want to cover. There’s only one of him, and one series of shots. That kind of bureaucracy is above his pay-grade. 

Pulling the collar of his raincoat higher around his neck, Crowley steps away from the dune. 

He flicks on his round, polarized glasses that he always wears, storm or no, to shield his eyes from lashing rain and potential flying debris. Shrugging his camera-pack over his shoulder, the storm chaser walks, once again, into a hurricane.

>>>


	2. Chapter 2

>>>

Aziraphale folds his hands and lays them politely in his lap. 

Once again, Gabriel is on a tirade; and, once again Aziraphale’s been summoned to assess the situation. 

_ (Apparently, Mr. L’Arche thinks that Aziraphale’s possession of a degree in psychology means that his professional time is disposable for his employer’s personal, free counseling upon demand).  _ He bites his tongue, and listens patiently. 

“And then!” Gabriel rages, clicking through to pull up another email on his desktop. “And then! Can you believe it! Bee said, Bee had the  _ nerve  _ to  _ say  _ right to my  _ face _ \--” 

Aziraphale clears his throat gently. Gabriel wrenches his eyes away from his desktop, glaring at him for the interruption. 

“Mr. L’Arche,” he begins politely. “I’m sorry to hear that you’ve been having trouble with Brimstone Corps again. And I regret to hear that your interactions with manager Beelzebub have, once again, proved stressful.” 

Gabriel’s jaw twitches. 

“Stressful!” he rages. “ _ Stressful  _ is when people don’t turn in their reports on time.  _ Stressful _ is when we have a glitch in the afternoon footage! Stressful is  _ not  _ when my competitor holds my best reporter  _ hostage, _ bartering costs in the midst of an event that should be earning me billions of hits, not costing me time and effort to negotiate with...with... _ corporate terrorists! _ ” 

Aziraphale waits silently as Gabriel fumes.

Eventually, as the weatherman knew he would, the station manger pants himself down to semi-calmness. 

When he daubs at his brow with a lavender pocket square (a signal that he is nearing a state of ‘normalcy,’) Aziraphale states: 

“It appears that this is,  _ in fact _ , rather stressful for you after all, Sir.” 

He does not voice the fact with any rudeness. Regardless, Gabriel flashes Aziraphale a rare, unvarnished glaze of hatred. It’s ugly. Aziraphale, for his part, does not flinch. 

“However. Despite sharing my sympathies, sir,” he continues diplomatically, “I’m not entirely sure why it is that you’ve called me here. Or what it is that you’d like me to do about... _your_ situation.” 

He makes a point of emphasizing the ‘your’ for the sake of reminding Le’Arche who ought to be making level-headed decisions here. It’s not meant to shame Gabriel; but it  _ is  _ meant to remind him that it is the responsibility of the  _ manger _ to manage inter-corporate administrative work,  _ not _ the televised weatherman.

Gabriel-- _ blessedly-- _ nods. He tucks his pocket square back in his suit.

“You’re right, of course.” He says, straightening his lapels. “Quite right. As usual.” 

He stands from his chair and strides over to look out the painted window. Like all of the sets of the recording station, the glass is false and adjustable, ready for whatever picture is desired to be projected upon it. 

“Thank you for your professional feedback, Aziraphale.” Gabriel says. He’s recovered most of his composure now, and Aziraphale privately sighs in relief.  “I don’t mean to... _ exaggerate. _ But this is a sensitive matter. We are on fragile terms with Brimstone right now, and I can’t afford for things to go farther downward. Not only do I disagree with Mx. Beelzebub about how this station ought cover the storm, but we disagree on how we should inform the public. As always, my intent is that the public should be protected, and made less vulnerable, with our content.  _ Beelzebub,  _ on the other hand, prefers to...stir things up. Keeping anxiety and crisis on the front-burner.”

Aziraphale chews on one lip, weighing options. 

_ If he provides his opinion right now, will Gabriel hear it? _

“Transparent, you mean.” Aziraphale says carefully. 

Gabriel narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. “Eh?” 

“Brimstone likes to take an unvarnished and graphic approach to the difficulty of each situation.” Aziraphale says. “Whereas, here at Celestial, our policy is to put the most favorable story on any situation, with the intention of providing our people with hope.” 

Gabriel waves a dismissive hand. “Yes. What about it?”

“Beelzebub sees Brimstone’s coverage as ‘ _ honest’  _ and ‘ _ transparent.’  _ Whereas you see it as distressing and uninspired.” 

Gabriel snorts. “That crisis-based trash  _ is  _ uninspired. Bee is simply groping for hits.” 

Aziraphale closes his eyelids to hide their roll. He continues. 

“You see our work here at Celestial as an encouraging translation of crisis. But don’t you realize that others like Mx. Beelzebub might interpret that as dishonest? Or overly optimistic?” 

The heat has returned to Gabriel’s eyes, but he’s not starting to sweat and steam. _A good sign._

_"_ Perhaps there is some way to negotiate. To meet some sort of middle-ground. Where there is yet another side of the story entirely, rather than your side or their side." 

Gabriel smiles through clenched teeth. 

“And that’s why I’m sending  _ you,  _ my dear Aziraphale.” 

He is stunned. 

“What, me?” Aziraphale asks incredulously. “Sending me where? Why?” 

Gabriel walks to his printer, tugging the most recent paper from the pile. He walks over and hands the email to Aziraphale, complete with maps, directions, and objectives. Along with the header for Celestial Station, the figurehead for Brimstone Corps is stamped at the top. 

“I need you to make a public relations call to Brimstone Weather Corps.” Gabriel states smoothly. "And since you are the one to seems to believe so heartily that there is a chance for compromise, you will be the one to head up the conversation." 

Aziraphale stares at the page, his eyes flying over the information. 

_Negotiations? North_ __Carolina?_ The heart of the hurricane?!  _

Given these orders, he’d be heading  _ directly  _ into Adam's wake--not to mention, wading into the decades-long feud between Celestial and Brimstone. ( _And he already doesn't care much for flying_.) Aziraphale gulps, hoping that his trepidation is not too visible. If L'Arche is able to see it, he will surely pounce. 

“When do I leave?” He asks instead. Aziraphale struggles to keep his voice neutral and calm, despite his concerns and frustrations. 

_ This is your job, Gabriel. YOU should be doing this.  _

Gabriel smiles--sickly sweet, still on edge.  “How soon will you be able to pack?”

>>>

Crowley arranges the lapel microphone on a woman with tired, hollow eyes. 

She looks as though she’s walked through hell and back. Privately, he agrees: these people have lost _everything_ in Adam’s wake: house, home, livelihood. Not even to mention the scattered bodies, lying in the knee-deep in the saltwater ditches, yet to be claimed or identified. 

The woman is worn. She has a sleeping, curly-haired toddler clinging to her hip, who is perhaps unaware of the tension and danger all around them. Crowley feels for the child, wondering what they have seen in these past few days. _Can they comprehend?_ He would never have stopped either of them for this interview, if she had not approached him first. 

“Alright.” Crowley says, stepping away from her and adjusting his camera. 

“Thanks for agreeing to share your experience. As a reminder, you are not obligated to say anything; but I'm grateful you're willing to share a few words of your story.” 

T he light of his camera glows green, and he gives a thumbs up to the woman before him. "Go ahead."  


The woman gives him a blank, dead-eyed stare.

Gesturing again, Crowley speaks into his own microphone. His words echo back into his earpiece, calming and inviting. “Thanks for your time today. Would you please tell our viewers what has happened here in this place during Hurricane Adam?” 

She blinks. When she sways, Crowley swears softly. He rushes forward, quickly powering-down his camera. 

“Hey.” He says softly, reaching out a hand.  When he puts it on her shoulder, steadying, she flinches.

“Hey, listen. I’m sorry. You don’t have to say anything.” Crowley winces. Clearly, she is far too tired and traumatized to do much more than stand here before him. It is asking too much to recount words.  Although she had agreed to this interview minutes before, the actual moment of reliving her dreadful experience has drained her voice. And  Crowley does not blame her. 

“Never mind.” Crowley says gently. "Please, take a rest." 

The woman makes a choking sound low in her throat. 

He bends to pack up his tripod, giving her a moment of privacy for her tears.  He’s seen this before: in the face of catastrophe and extreme danger, the human soul needs to pause for deep breaths. Speaking casually, checking that the body is receiving what it needs for survival, is normalization that helps decompress. 

“Can I get you another water instead? Maybe, something sugary for the kid?”

But when he looks back up, the woman has walked away. Her child is still sleeping soundly, and she has placed a hand over their eyes. This futile gesture of protection leaves a lump in Crowley's throat.

The refugee site is cold and under-equipped; but it is a lifeline for those who are now homeless. Dingy cots line the dripping, cold, concrete walls. At one side of the gym is a station with clean, bottled water and orange juice. Next to it is a shabby medical station with a thinning stock of basic necessities. Crowley had been conducting an interview with one of the relief workers serving as a stand-in doctor when the woman had approached him and inquired about his camera. 

Once again, the vibration of a cell phone draws Crowley’s attention. 

He pulls the slim, black device out of his back pocket and holds it up to his ear. 

“Crowley here.” 

“ _ Anthony J. Crowley? It’s Hastur. From Brimstone _ .” 

Crowley nods gratefully at the relief worker who is offering him a chair while he speaks. He slumps down onto the folding metal, a tangled pile of soaked limbs and rain boots, and holds the phone up to his ear. 

“Hastur. What can I do for you?” 

_ “Touched base with Ligur just a bit ago. We’ve got some solid footage out here on the northeastern front, so you won’t need to figure out how to get here by sundown.”  _

Crowley glances towards the reinforced window of the shelter.  _ ‘Sundown’  _ is a generous term for the near-constant grey of hurricane daylight. 

“Right. What do you need, then?” 

_ “Boss wants you to come into the office. Sounds like they are sending someone from Celestial over our way, and they don’t want to make sure that they are feeling comfortable.”  _

Crowley blinks with surprise. “Who? Another reporter?” 

He can’t fathom why Gabriel would send someone  _ else  _ into this ridiculous storm. Surely, there was some sort of big play at stake.

_ “--Didn’t say.”  _ Hastur replies shiftily. Crowley gets the feeling he's not being told something.  _ “But it’s probably someone important. Head office isn’t much for P.R., so that’s probably who they sent. And they want you to be there, so a familiar face can help to smooth things over. Apparently, Bee's made a mess of it.”  _

“Sure. Understandable.” 

Crowley shifts his phone to his other ear, and finishes pulling the double-zipper to waterproof his media pack. He appreciates the direct, no-nonsense approach that Brimstone takes with its employees and communication. _A little rough around the edges maybe, but he always knows exactly what’s expected of him._ No walking on eggshells, no deceptions. Maybe someday, he’ll come work for them instead. 

“Did they say how soon they needed me there?” 

Hastur chuckles. 

_ “How soon can you pack?”  _

Crowley scoffs into the receiver. 

“Pack’s on my shoulder as we speak.” 

He tightens the lower abdominal straps across his middle, cinches the sides of his pack, and adds: “You sending in a terrain vehicle to pick me up? Or am I supposed to  _ miracle  _ myself back to the capitol?” 

That one earns him an outright laugh. 

“There should be a vehicle coming along shortly.” 

“Sounds good. M’on it.”

“Oh, and Crowley?”

“Yeah?” 

“Er...Take a shower or something. Before coming into the office. Might want to brush your hair or whatever. Okay?” 

Crowley blinks several times, uncertain what to say. _What?..._ He doesn’t often receive suggestions like that. And it’s not like he is going to be in front of a camera or something. _Who cares what a field reporter or storm chaser wears?_ Then again, he doesn’t often work for Brimstone, so... best to go with it. 

“Fine. See you there in an hour or so.” 

“Satan willing.” 

Raising his eyebrows at the responce, Crowley drops the call. 

>>>


	3. Chapter 3

>>>

Aziraphale rolls his bursting suitcase down the moving walkway. It had taken several phone calls and eloquent promises, but Gabriel had secured a seat for Aziraphale on the soonest (and final) departure to Raleigh. Given the severity of the weather, all airports in the Carolinas were closing down; he hadn’t even been sure that he’d make it, as the airplane shuddered and groaned in the sky. Thankfully, such vessels were more stalwart and hearty than Aziraphale’s imagination, and the wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac exactly upon the predicted schedule. 

His phone chimes, and Aziraphale pulls it out of his tan raincoat. 

1 NEW MESSAGE, 5:06 PM (EST): REPLY Y/N ON SAFE ARRIVAL. 

Aziraphale thumbs the buttons of his smartphone, sending back “Y” in the affirmative. In response, a new message blinks in: 

PROCEED DIRECTLY TO BRIMSTONE. REPORT TO MANAGER. HOTEL DETAILS TO BE PROVIDED UPON ARRIVAL. 

The weatherman sighs and tucks his phone away into safety. He  _ had  _ hoped that he would be able to freshen up before arriving to meet the rival corporate; but, if those were his instructions, it could not be helped. While he did his best to counter Gabriel’s stubbornness back at the office, there was little he could do to subvert his authority from this kind of distance. 

Checking his watch, Aziraphale turns of the walkway and makes for the exit.  _ 5:11 PM.  _ He has less than an hour to get from Durham to Brimstone, so he best not catch bus but hail a taxi instead. Aziraphale preferred to the environmental nature of public transport, but at this bustling hour, it would be much quicker and more precise to use the Yellow Diamond. 

Stepping through the  _ hiss  _ of the automatic doors, Aziraphale is immediately greeted by wind. He is buffeted with the force and the pressure of it, and he feels stinging pins of cold rain scattered throughout it. Here, farther inland, the urban center of Raleigh is more sheltered and less devastated by Hurricane Adam. However, the city shows distinct signs of the devastation: shingles and siding pulled off of buildings; pools of dark rainfall that obscure the freeway; overturned cars, dumpsters, and picnic tables. 

“Taxi!” Aziraphale waves, and a yellow-striped car pulls up to meet him. He pushes his luggage into the boot, and climbs into the (rather musky) passenger seat. 

“Take me to Brimstone Weather Corps, and  _ quickly,  _ if you please.” 

The cabbie nods, starts the meter, and pulls away from the closing airport. As it disappears out the rearview window, Aziraphale sees stewards exiting the premises hurriedly.  _ That,  _ he thinks,  _ cannot be a good sign.  _ He sinks lower into his chair, praying that Somebody will watch over him in this dangerous time. 

>>>

Crowley discards his backpack on the office table, and rakes a hand through his still-dampened hair. 

“Oi, Hastur! Ligur!” He calls from the door. “Any word on when our guest will arrive?” 

Dagon walks past, balancing a stack of file-folders in her arms. 

“You won’t find them here,” she states, pausing to deposit one of the files onto Ligur’s black desk. “They just turned in for the evening. Good to see that you made it back in one piece, Crawly.” She adds, winking. 

_ “Crowley. _ ” 

The secretary shrugs. 

She moves away, dropping files onto desks as she goes. 

“Have you seen the boss, then? I’m pretty sure that I’m supposed to report--” 

But, at that moment, Crowley feels his heart stop. 

_ Actually  _ stop. 

Because--walking into Brimstone Corp station, toting a blue umbrella, looking for all the world like a waterlogged duckling in tan coat and ridiculous, knee-high galoshes--is  _ Mr. Aziraphale Fell.  _ Celestial Station (and Crowley’s) very-own weatherman. 

He cannot breathe. 

“Oh, you’re  _ here _ !” Dagon says with alarm. 

She parts with her stack of files for just long enough to stride across the room and shake weatherman’s hand, looking terribly awkward.

“Sorry, so sorry! Boss said they were on their way to get you, so I thought, ah--” 

“No need to worry, my dear!” Aziraphale assures her warmly. 

His eyes are sparkling, and his smile is white like clouds in the heavens. There is a rose in his cheeks from the cold, and water droplets cast a halo of sparkles from his blonde curls. 

“I happened to catch the first taxi I saw. Did you know, cabbies in this town are  _ quite  _ good drivers?”

He pulls back his hood, ruffles his blonde hair, and  _ winks.  _

Dagon seems a little confused--but Crowley is  _ thunderstruck.  _ Aziraphale is everything,  _ everything,  _ that he’s ever dreamed: charm, welcoming,  _ home.  _

He is soft as cotton, smiles sweet as honey. 

Crowley thinks that he might be dead, and, having gone to heaven, encountered an angel.

“Oh, hello there, love!” Aziraphale says cheerfully, catching Crowley staring at him from the doorway. 

He immediately feels himself flushing from a chalky-white to a brilliant, scarlet-red. 

“And who might you be?”

Dagon gives the weatherman a startled look, then traces her eyes back and forth between him and Crowley. 

“Er. I  _ thought--”  _ Dagon starts, all awkwardness again. “I mean!  _ We  _ thought. That is to say...that you’d...er, don’t you know who... _ this? _ ...” 

The secretary stares helplessly at Crowley. 

Aziraphale continues to wait politely, and, when the minute grows long, Crowley clears his throat and forces himself forward. His mouth feels quite dry. 

“Crowley.” He croaks. “Anthony J. Crowley. One of the outbound reporters from Celestial Station. I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

He stretches out a shaking hand. 

Aziraphale’s eyes brighten with recognition. 

_ “The  _ Anthony J. Crowley?” He asks with admiration. “The one who made his debut as ‘Young Weather Photographer of the Year’ with a shot from his very first day on the job? The one who collected awards from Sony and National Geographic for his reporting on Hurricane Damien?” 

Crowley is astonished. He finds that he’s swallowed his tongue all over again. 

“Dear boy! How  _ long _ I’ve desired to meet you!” Aziraphale steps forward, extending his hand. “When I heard that head office had loaned someone from home out to Brimstone, I had imagined it was some intern; not an  _ expert  _ in the field like you!” 

When he allows himself to shake Mr. Fell’s outstretched hand, Crowley does all he can not to keel over. The  _ warmth  _ of it; the  _ pleasantness  _ of it; the  _ softness  _ of the touch of his hand. 

“Ah.” Dagon says, looking back and forth between the pair of them. “So you  _ do  _ know each other.” 

Crowley wrinkles his brow. “Well,  _ no,”  _ he begins--just as Fell replies, “Yes!” 

Dagon smiles, and gathers up another file folder.

“Good.” She says, visibly relieved. “Because it would have been  _ weird _ for you two to share accommodations without ever having met one another.” 

She laughs awkwardly, handing the folder to a stunned, sweaty Crowley. 

“Ah? What’s that?” Crowley asks, feeling electrified. 

“Thank you, my dear.” Aziraphale assures her warmly, receiving the hotel keys and paper confirming their reservation. “Yes, I’m quite  _ certain  _ this will all work out just  _ lovely.”  _

Offering a bent arm to a spluttering Crowley, Mr. Aziraphale Fell walks him from the office. 

>>>

“Why did you tell her that?” Crowley asks him later. 

They’ve been set up in a quaint, cozy hotel room; all the amenities, including a coffee pot, jacuzzi, and fully-stocked refrigerator ( _ ‘Tab is in Brimstone, _ ’ their file had read). If Crowley hadn’t been there on official business, he could have  _ sworn _ that they were here on a holiday. 

A  _ holiday.  _ A holiday, with  _ Mr. Fell.  _

Aziraphale  _ tisks _ and tucks several pairs of socks into the drawer. “Well. I thought it was obvious she was distressed...I didn’t want to inconvenience her further, my dear.”

As he begins to confidently unpack several crisp, white pairs of underwear, Crowley flushes and turns around with a shiver. Not only is the weatherman every bit of lovely Crowley ever dreamed--he’s  _ HOT.  _ It feels strange to admit that, particularly about a soft, gentle man several years his senior. But there’s no denying it: Crowley feels tense, alert, and distinctly hot-under-the-collar. He finds himself not only listening to Mr. Fell’s words as they talk--but watching his  _ hands,  _ and his  _ mouth,  _ and his  _ lips.  _

If he’s not careful, Crowley can quickly find himself imagining that he’s sinking into the comforting plushness that is his angelic bosom--

“Crowley?” he asks. “Are you quite well?” 

Crowley snaps to attention, finding that Mr. Fell has stripped down to undershirt and cufflinks. He’s carefully unbuttoning each one, and watching the storm chaser with an amused expression. 

“I think that the storm has made you a tad water-logged, my dear.” The weatherman says, not at all making the statement demeaning. He stretches and yawns, and as he does, the shirt pulls and exposes the curve of his belly. It’s dusted with blonde, curly hair, and Crowley forces his eyes shut. 

_ God. Satan. SOMEBODY.  _

“Have you eaten lately? Shall I order us dinner?” Crowley opens his eyes to find Mr. Fell settling down in the cozy armchair, adjusting the pillows behind him to meet his liking. “I ate on the plane, but I must admit: I’m a bit  _ peckish. _ ” 

Crowley blinks. He does not often think about feeding his corporation; when it comes to food, he often fuels himself with whatever he can get his hands on, cheap, and for the longest mileage (carbs, sugars, proteins). It hadn’t occurred to him to eat yet today, and Mr. Fell’s suggestion makes his stomach rumble. 

“Yeah.” Crowley hears himself saying. “Yeah. Sure, okay.” 

The other man smiles, and he feels a bit dizzy. They’ve been in their two-bed hotel room for an hour now, but Crowley  _ still  _ feels like he is in a dream. Dreaming. The old, battered radio in his weather-proof pocket has been silent since this morning’s program, and, for once, he doesn’t crave to draw it back out: the source of his comforting and longing is sitting before him, cat-eye glasses perched on top of his nose. 

“What do you like? Italian?” 

“Sure, Mr. Fell.” Crowley replies, sinking back onto his comfy bed. “Whatever you want. You order.” 

The weatherman sighs. “Please,” he encourages, “Call me Aziraphale. I know that I’m old, but I’d rather not be addressed like your father. Or grandfather!” 

Crowley makes a choking noise.  _ Aziraphale.  _ Now they’re on first-name basis. 

“Okay, Aziraphale.” 

“Better. Sure you don’t have a preference?”

Crowley stares at the man across the room from him. Aziraphale has a halo from the lamp, and the book he is holding in his hands looks well-worn and treasured. There is a distinct coziness about him, and the discomfort of rooming with a complete stranger is not even applicable. 

“I’m good.” he swallows. “Right here, right now. It’s perfect. I’m good.” 

Aziraphale chuckles as he dials the spiral-corded phone. “Yes, you certainly are.” He agrees. Before Crowley can ask what he’d meant by that, HE holds up one finger and listens into the phone. “Yes? Oh, very good! I was hoping you’d still be open at this hour.  _ Bless  _ you.”

Crowley smiles, and makes his way into the bathroom. He  _ can’t  _ believe that he’s here, right  _ now,  _ with Aziraphale Fell. He needs to be  _ cool. _ He needs to  _ snap out of it.  _

“Room service?  _ Lovely!”  _ He hears Aziraphale sing from the other room. “Why, that would be perfect. Bring several, won’t you? I’ll give you my card.” 

Crowley turns on the water and splashes his face. He had only just showered (dutifully, after receiving his summons) before reporting to Brimstone office. But he’d have done something more--wore a  _ suit,  _ for hells’ sake--if he’d have  _ known  _ who would be waiting. 

The red-haired, freckled man gazes into the mirror. His reflection stares back at him: long, angular face; sharp, high cheekbones; pale skin. His eyes, yellow-gold, are a strange, catlike color. Off-putting.  _ Weird,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ Weird. And shy. And too thin.  _ He sighs, and presses his forehead against the cool surface. 

“Love?” Aziraphale calls, knocking on the door of the bathroom. 

_ “Ngk!” _ Crowley yips, jerking back and scattering his toiletries all across the room. They clatter in the sink and onto the floor with a loud tumble. “ _ Shit!”  _

“You okay in there?” Aziraphale’s voice is muffled, yet his concern is clear. Crowley flames with embarrassment. “Do you need some help?” 

“J-just a minute!” Crowley calls, scrambling, knees hitting the tiled floor. “Dropped my things! I’ll clear out in a moment!” 

He hears Aziraphale pause in hesitation. Then, “Alright, Crowley. Join me for tea when you’re done?” 

“Sure.” 

_ How is he going to make it through this night? Especially with Fell saying things like THAT? _

Crowley scrabbles to collect his things, black-painted nails skittering across the floor. 

_ Get a hold of yourself. Make a good impression.  _

This small, unbelievable bubble of time that he gets to...to…  _ spend the night  _ with Mr. Aziraphale Fell might be the only time that he gets to meet him. He  _ has  _ to put in his best effort. 

>>>

Supper does not take nearly as long as they had expected, and so Crowley and Aziraphale have just one cup of tea and little time to chat before it arrives. But after stuffing himself  _ silly _ with their feast--lobster bisque, rigatoni, white-white scallops and clamshells, garlic-butter linguine and fresh-baked bread--Crowley accepts another scalding-hot cup, and finds himself sprawled out on the floor next to Aziraphale, talking rapidly about chasing weather. 

“Fortunately, Smithsonian thought my submission was worthy enough to merit a scholarship, so I was able to get a degree.” 

Crowley is babbling, and he knows it. 

“It’s not like I could have afforded it otherwise. But I had a chance at a better life, and  _ dammit  _ if I wasn’t going to take it.” 

“That’s very brave of you, dear.” Aziraphale says, patting Crowley softly on the hand. The other man smiles; he does not seem bored or overwhelmed in the least of outpouring his information. “I’m very impressed that you managed to do so well on your own. And, clearly, you’ve made the very best of it.” 

Crowley flushes. “Thank you. Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale brushes his fingers against Crowley’s upturned knuckles (with a start, he realizes that the weatherman hadn’t withdrawn them.)

“But I can’t help but wonder...aren’t you terribly  _ lonely?”  _

It feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. Many times, many interviews, Crowley has been asked all manner of personal questions. And yet, he’s never been asked something so  _ vulnerable  _ about his feelings. It’s always  _ “how did you get the strength to overcome this? _ ” or  _ “what was on your mind when you accomplished that?”  _ It was not, and had never been,  _ “how are you, Crowley? _ ” or  _ “are you well, dearheart?” _

And the question pokes something fragile inside of him. 

Crowley is horrified to find his eyes stinging with hot tears. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps. He rolls on his side, and places both hands upon Crowley’s shoulders. “Oh, my dear! I’m  _ sorry!  _ That’s rather private. How presumptuous of me. _ ”  _

Crowley bites down hard on his lip, determined not to fucking _cry_ in front of his celebrity crush. “S’fine,” he says, pushing through it determinedly. 

“My dear boy.” Aziraphale murmurs, brushing his hands down Crowley’s long arms. “I didn’t mean to...upset you. It’s far too easy to talk openly to someone like you. Isn’t it odd? We’ve known each other for just a few, short hours, and yet, I feel like I could ask you anything.” 

Crowley blushes. His stomach is quickly moving from one kind of queasy to another. 

“And yet, for all of that. I must not pry about sensitive things. Hopefully you’ll forgive me?” 

Aziraphale stares at Crowley earnestly. He is now clasping both of Crowley’s hands in his own, and those blue eyes are filled with concern. It’s  _ precious.  _

“S’nothing to forgive, Angel.” Crowley replies. He startles: the pet-name has just slipped right out of his mouth, without warning. 

For horrified moment, he wishes that he could take it back. But then--

“Oh! Aren’t you a  _ darling!”  _ Aziraphale says, squeezing both of the hands that are Crowley’s.

“Yes,  _ please _ call me that. And, you know? I  _ do hope _ that we become close friends. I feel as though we’ve made a special connection here tonight, Crowley. Don’t you feel the same?” 

The storm chaser stares, filled with quiet amazement, at the perfect being smiling before him. It’s as if the man is reading his mind and speaking directly into Crowley’s deepest and longest-held wishes. 

“Er, Right.” Crowley manages. “Yes.” 

Aziraphale beams, squeezes his hands once more, and pushes himself up from the hotel carpet. At some point, the weatherman laid out a blanket for their meal, and the scattered remains of the feast on the floor provides Crowley with the sudden and lovely visual of a picnic. 

“What do you say we turn in for the night?” Aziraphale asks. He pads toward his of the two beds, pulling down the edge of the corner. “I’m feeling quite beat. And after that delicious meal? I think I shall be sleeping fitfully in no time.” 

Crowley finds himself nodding, and pushes himself up to his knees. 

“Sure. Yeah. What’s the plan for the morning?”

Aziraphale frowns for just a moment. He gestures over to the file Dagon presented earlier at the office. 

“Along with acquiring some storm footage, I believe we have a list of meetings to attend.” 

He climbs into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. 

“A bit dull. But, knowing that you’ll be there with me shall make it all worth it.”

Aziraphale gives Crowley a contented smile, and the storm chaser feels his heart flutter. 

“Well! Goodnight, my dear.” 

“Sleep well, Aziraph…. _ Angel _ .” 

As Crowley flicks off the light and crawls into his own bed, he cannot help but wonder if this night is just a fever dream, and his rain-soaked body is laying on Devil’s Hills beach somewhere. 

>>>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief NSFW warning! Overall, this is a pretty tame fic. However, this chapter has some mentions of masturbation. If that's not your jam, please skip ahead to the next set of arrows...thanks!

>>>

Crowley was worried the next day that things would be awkward between himself and Aziraphale. Given the magnitude of his affection for the man, he was worried that he had over-imagined how well their introductions had gone. However, it seems he needn’t have worried: Aziraphale is already up and humming merrily over jam toast and the newspaper when Crowley wakes, and he gives him a cheerful wave on the way to the washroom. 

Without knowing the forecast, you might’ve thought that it was Christmas morning, not a call in the eye of a hurricane.

“Good morning, Crowley!” Aziraphale chirps. “I hope you got some good rest last night!” 

He is wearing a tan, tartan tie that pulls colors expertly from his beige trousers and sandstone vest. The shirt underneath is a powdery blue, which enhances the lightness of his eyes.As he smiles at Crowley from under a tousle of white-blonde curls, he has a sudden, visceral memory of slipping up and calling the weatherman ‘ _Angel’_ last night. 

If nothing else, it’s fitting. 

Aziraphale gestures to a steaming, chipped teacup on the bedside table. “I’ve made you Earl Grey,” He continues. “A little caffeine in the morning never hurt anyone!” 

The storm chaser groans and rolls over. He is _infatuated._ This sunshine-man has made him _tea,_ and wished him _good morning_ . He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but he knows that, for each and every moment with Aziraphale, his life is better. _He_ is better. 

“Yeah.” Crowley says. 

He pushes himself up to sitting, tongue feeling thick inside of his mouth. _How’s my hair? Shit. Probably a disaster._

“I did, actually. And... _thanks,_ Angel.” 

Aziraphale beams. 

Well! _That’s_ enough confirmation that last night happened! Embarrassed and surprised at his own boldness, Crowley leaps from bed and makes quick for the washroom. 

“I’m going down for a bit more breakfast!” Aziraphale calls to Crowley he shuts the door firmly behind him. “Need anything?” 

_A cold shower,_ he thinks.

“Nah! I’m good.”

Stripping down to his pale, freckled skin, Crowley draws back the curtain. As he steps in, he spins the tap to scalding hot. Steam rises from the tap and begins to fog the mirror’s glass. 

“Alright, dear boy.” Aziraphale says. “But if you change your mind, do meet me down there, won’t you?” 

“Sure. Sounds good.” 

As the door closes behind Aziraphale, Crowley releases a sigh. _Aziraphale._ Hot, steaming water runs down his body, dripping from his prominent ribs in rivulets. He rolls his head back, letting water caress the column of his neck and throat. 

It feels _heavenly._

A sudden, intense shiver of pleasure overtakes Crowley. 

_No. Don’t. Don’t do it._

Crowley turns his head side to side. He feels the hot water running down his navel, between his legs. It laps at his skin, leaks into crevices--

 _How long?_ he thinks. _How long until Aziraphale--_

“Mmmnnn!” Crowley’s whole body shudders. 

Thinking of him was a bad idea. The way Aziraphale’s curls fall over his brow. They way every angle of Aziraphale looks comfortable enough to sink into. The way laugh-lines form a crinkle around Aziraphale’s eyes when he laughs. 

Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Ahh!”

Fortunately, Crowley knows that he is now alone. But, still; Crowley knows that it’s not _great_ form to wank in _anyone_ else’s shower. Let alone, the shower that he is presently sharing with dear _Aziraphale Fell_ \--

“Mmmn... _AHH_!” 

_Hurry. HURRY!_

Bracing against the shower wall, Crowley pushes a rough finger inside of himself. 

“F- _fuck!”_

It’s rough. He hasn’t taken the time to prepare himself, and it’s been a while. But the ache is _exactly_ what his body needs, and Crowley feels himself loosening quickly. 

_How long has it been, exactly?_

Thighs quaking, forearms rigid with effort, Crowley twists the length of his fingers inside of him. _Too long,_ he thinks, panting. _Far too long now._ While the traveling of his job has provided all manner of opportunity for one-night flings, Crowley and his body have become steadily less and less interested in engaging in sexual acts. These days, even the idea of intimacy with a stranger sounds downright _exhausting._ The vulnerability required...

 _But_ . he thinks. _But. Aziraphale isn’t a stranger._

“Aah-ha!,” he gasps wetly. Crowley leans into the spray and adds another finger. 

It’s not _strictly_ true. There’s _no way_ Aziraphale would have known that Crowley had been listening to his voice--morning, noon, and night; every day for six years now--when he’d said such things last night (“ _I feel as though we’ve known each other for quite some time, Crowley! Let’s be good friends_!” _)._ And yet, matter how irrational, naive, and, let’s name it: _unsafe_ it is to imagine affection with someone you’ve never met in person: there is a _powerful_ part of Crowley that has already created space for Aziraphale. For a friendship. Intimacy. 

“AH! Ahhh, hmm, _hnn_!”

Crowley is open-mouthed moaning now. He’s imagining Aziraphale’s supple cheeks, flushed rosy with pleasure, held close against him. In his mind, the other man reaches for Crowley in return: hands smoothing over his face; soft lips pressing into his own; thick, hard cock pressing to his own cock. 

_“F-fuck!”_ Crowley gasps raggedly.

He drops his other hand, and begins to grasp and stroke himself in earnest. 

“Fuck! Fucking, S-somebody!--”

Crowley pumps his fingers inside and out, squeezes himself in a matching rhythm. His heart is speeding up fast, body prickling with the rush of blood flow to his abdomen. All the while, he imagines the solidness of a gentle body pressed into his, lovingly whispering into his ear. 

“Ah-ha, please!” 

In his mind, Aziraphale pulls him into a crushing embrace. He begs. 

“Oh, please, _PLEASE,_ Angel! Aziraphale--”

When Crowley finally comes, overheated and gasping, it’s to the shape of Aziraphale’s name.

>>>

In the car from the hotel to Brimstone office, Aziraphale watches Crowley carefully. The other has been rather quiet this morning, and he hadn’t eaten so much as a muffin downstairs ( _although he had,_ Aziraphale noticed, _drank the tea he made for him_ ).

Crowley himself was a bit of a mystery: long, lean and beautiful, the storm chaser is, in actuality, as shy and timid as he is insecure. For all the tight-fitting leather and snakebites through his lower lip, Crowley is really quite as soft as _he_ is. Their conversation last night had been illuminating. Aziraphale had become more and more intrigued by the brilliant, kind man as he’d learned about his life and his hobbies. Crowley clearly had never been in what might be called a healthy relationship--even when he _did_ still have parents who had not effectively abandoned him. His self-talk was poor, and he suspected that the storm chaser put most of his value into his good looks, rather than his outstanding quality, talent or character. (Not that Crowley wasn’t something magnificent to look at; Aziraphale had caught himself staring more than once. Upon which he chided himself on being unprofessional). 

The storm chaser's attachment issues may present a bit of a problem. Aziraphale was looking forward to working with him, but he knows that many people who have been treated so poorly often have terrible skills in understanding and articulating their emotions. He would very much like to ask if Crowley was single, and take the sweet man out on a date, but he was afraid that he’d cause him a heart attack. Or worse: bring up some kind of trauma or panic. The gentleness he’d applied last night in their conversation had revealed enough: Crowley had _been through_ some things. And he hadn’t been treated with a gentle hand. It was likely that he hadn’t dealt with the pain that he carried around with him, and found the tears in his eyes just as shameful as he saw his perceived weakness.

Aziraphale clears his throat, pulling Crowley’s steadfast attention away from the window. He has a feeling that his fellow meteorologist has been avoiding looking at him. 

“Crowley? Are you alright?”

The other man winces, turning his head to look at Aziraphale. _Oh._ It appears that his automatic reaction is defensive, as if he expects to be scolded or punished for his behavior. 

“What? No, no, I’m fine! It’s nothing!” He wrings his fingers around the handle of his backpack.“Just. Thinking about the job, is all.” 

Before leaving the hotel, Aziraphale and Crowley had gone over the file from Dagon. On their list today included: a meeting in person with Mx. Beelzebub; a joint meeting online adding Gabriel L’Arche; a coffee break; a terms of policy and finance negotiation write-up meeting; lunch; and being sent out to Nag’s Head for some weather shots. Among these unpleasant things, Aziraphale wasn’t sure that he would get to spend much time one-on-one with Crowley. And he hoped that, at the very least, thier venture out into the storm would be useful; bureaucracy negotiations had never seemed especially effective to him.

Or maybe he was just used to Gabriel. 

“You seem a bit lost at sea, dear.” Aziraphale says. He reaches one hand out and over to Crowley, squeezing a lanky, denim-clad leg just above the knee. “Anything I can help with?” He tracks Crowley’s flinch--yet, _not_ one of displeasure--at his touch. 

Crowley gives a shaky sigh. “Nah, not really. I guess I don’t have any idea of what to expect.” Crowley grimaces, trusting Aziraphale with an unhappy smile. “I don’t like paperwork.” 

“Agreed.” 

“But I don’t care for _anyone_ less than Gabriel.” 

“Oh-ho!” Aziraphale laughs, slapping his palm on Crowley’s bent knee. “Then I guess we are, once again, in agreement!” 

The storm chaser gives Aziraphale a grateful, appreciative look. “Yeah?”

“Oh, most certainly.” 

“ _Fantastic.”_

This admission seems to set Crowley, at last, at ease. He reclines back into his chair, drawing his knees up, and his spine bending in a way that _can’t_ be comfortable.

“I’d sort of hoped that’s what kind of man you are.” Crowley smiles. 

“What kind is that, dear heart?” 

“A trustworthy one.” 

Aziraphale feels his heart give a strange little flutter. He dips his head. _Coming from someone like Crowley, that’s high praise indeed._ “Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Don’t thank me. It’s all you, Angel.” 

The driver of their van clears her throat pointedly. 

“Ya’ll headed for Brimstone Corporation?” she rasps. 

“Yes?”

“Better get out, then.” 

Aziraphale starts, realizing that he and Crowley have been sitting and talking in an unmoving vehicle for what has to have been an embarrassingly long moment. Sheepishly, he begins to gather his things. 

“Need help with any of that?” 

_Of course. It’s Crowley._

“No, dear boy. I’ve got this.” Aziraphale pulls open the door and hoists his large, leather book bag over his shoulder. “Thank you kindly, ma’am! I’ll make sure the hotel pays you heartily.” 

“Wishful thinking.” The cabbie grumbles.

Crowley tosses her a rumpled, $20-dollar tip. 

>>>

“I don’t think you understand how this works.” 

Gabriel is looming into the camera, nostrils flared as if he smells a foul stench. 

“Anthony J. Crowley works for _me,_ Beelzebub. _ME._ And while you’re fortunate enough to be acquainted with him and Mr. Fell here, you are _not_ entitled to tell me how to do my job, where to send my agents, and how much I should be paying for them.”

Their second meeting had gone rather sour. Aziraphale didn’t _dislike_ Beelzebub; although they _were_ a bit off-putting--particularly in their sheer, serious intensity--they were very fair, and had given himself and Crowley ample time for discussion in their first meeting. But something about mixing Gabriel and Beelzebub did not turn right: the two of them raised conversation temperature from lukewarm to _hot,_ and tempers were very near the verge of boiling. Gabriel, of course, was used to always pushing and getting his way; Beelzebub (or, “Bee” as Gabriel and Crowley called them,) was an opposingly unmovable power. 

“Look.” the station manager of Brimstone Co. leans back in their chair. “You loaned Crowley here to me as a personal favor. And Aziraphale more than welcome to come here and visit. But putting your angel in a nice suit”--they flick a hand carelessly at him-- “and shipping him off to make a few _handshakes_ is _not_ going to change my mind about what Crowley’s worth.” 

Gabriel’s lip curls at Beelzebub’s words. His face, even through the distance of the computer, is visibly rising in color. (Aziraphale sees this as a signal danger; he’s been in that office enough times to know the warning signs). 

“His income stays where it’s set: it’s _non-negotiable._ You won’t bully me into changing our deal just because you don’t like the interviews he’s covering. So let’s not beat around it: I will cover my part, and you will cover yours. No matter _what_ sort of media he turns into us. You’re going to receive it, and say nothing otherwise.” 

Aziraphale cringes. He knows better than to try and tell Gabriel what he _will_ or _will not_ do--it seems as though what Mx. Beelzebub lacks in stature, they make up in sheer courage. He sort of admires that. For, alas, regardless of the words that will come now--this situation is guaranteed to not end well. Gabriel’s too far gone for that. 

“You listen _here_ , you little _insect!”_ Gabriel hisses. “Nobody tells me to shut up and gets away with it--” 

“--Looks like I did--” 

“--and _nobody_ cheats me out of a deal!” 

“Seems to me that _you’re_ the one cheating here.” 

“AZIRAPHALE!” Gabriel barks into the screen. “FIX this!” 

Crowley and Beelzebub turn their heads in surprise to look at the weatherman. Aziraphale, however, for his part, had been expecting this; it was only so long until Gabriel snaps, and unleashes his rage on his usual target. 

Aziraphale sighs. 

“Beelzebub, Crowley. Would you mind giving me and Mr. L’Arche a minute here?” 

He phrases it in the tone of a question, but leaves no doubt in his tone that this is a command. Beelzebub, reading his tone and not liking it, sniffs and pushes up from their chair. They stalk away, tapping at Crowley’s shoulder as they go. 

“Fine. Crawly? With me.” 

_“Crowley.”_ The storm chaser mutters, rising after him. He spares a quick glance to Aziraphale, eyes filled with what he imagines is a shared concern. “Do you need--?”

“This will all be just fine, I assure you.” Aziraphale says, attending the cuffs of his powder-blue dress shirt. “I’ll come for you both shortly.” 

Crowley nods unhappily and exits the room. 

Once everyone is gone, Aziraphale allows himself a moment to clench his teeth in frustration. Then, forcing his anger down, he turns to Gabriel. 

“What are you _thinking?”_ He says, much of his usual coziness gone. “I’ve listened to many of your concerns, Gabriel, but if you keep pushing and _pushing_ like this, you’re not only going to drive a wedge between yourself and your competitor--you’re going to _lose_ your best asset!” 

Gabriel blinks, both at his tone and his words. 

“Crowley?” He asks, as if such a thing had never occurred to him. “What kind of idiot would leave Celestial Co. and work for Brimstone?” 

“Yes, Crowley. Aziraphale replies cooly. He folds his hands on the table. “As would anyone else who would tire of getting _caught in the middle_.” Aziraphale allows the meaning of his words to hang heavily in the air between them. 

“What.” Gabriel finally scoffs. “You don’t actually mean to imply that _you’d_ do something so irrational as leaving to work for _them,_ Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale gazes steadily back at him. “Not to work for Brimstone, no,” he quietly says. “But, perhaps: never work for someone like _you_ again.” 

Gabriel stares. Not only is Aziraphale not simply absorbing his temper as usual, he’s pushing back, even _threatening_ Gabriel. The newness of this is unexpected, and it has left the station manager clearly unfooted. 

“Well!” Gabriel blusters, tugging to adjust his silk, purple tie. “Well…” 

“I suggest,” Aziraphale states, “That you come to some kind of terms with Mx. Beelzebub.” Over the derisive snort of Gabriel’s reply, he continues: “Maybe not what they’re asking, but _something_ that gives more than what you’re expecting. I think it would not only be beneficial for this arrangement, but _necessary_ for you and your company.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Understand?” 

Gabriel huffs through his nose. “You’re in no place to make orders, Fell.” 

“No. No, of course not.” Aziraphale rises, ready to bring the others back in. “I’m just the local weatherman.” 

As he walks to the door, he hopes that his bluff has impacted Gabriel. 

>>>

Crowley is loudly slurping from the savory bowl in front of him. 

“‘Ow did you get Gabriel to change his mind?” He asks Aziraphale thickly.

The weatherman thinks that it’s pretty cute: Crowley, so brooding and gorgeous, has his cheeks stuffed positively  _ full  _ with ramen noodles. He’s pretty sure that the storm chaser has no idea that one of them hangs from the corner of his mouth, echoing the long and lanky wiggle of his limbs. 

“Oh, this and that.” Aziraphale says, taking a ginger sip of his broth. 

Finally, the meetings of the day were completed. After the extended shouting-match that had been the joint meeting, Mx. Beelzebub had insisted they skip lunch and power directly into the contractual paperwork. Hungry and tired, Aziraphale had dismissed Brimstone’s offer to take himself and Crowley out on the town, and had instead found them the nearest ramen shop. 

“I know you did  _ something.” _ Crowley insists, wiping the back of his hand on his chin.  _ (Not used to dining in public with others,  _ Aziraphale thinks with gentle amusement). “What, are you some sort of part time... _ snake charmer?”  _

Aziraphale laughs, and spoons the pink-and-white swirl of fishcake to his lips. 

“Why, my dearest, serpentine friend?” He asks. “Is it working?” 

“Ngk!” 

Crowley sputters into his broth. Eventually, he manages: “Are you implying that I’m being tempted?” His eyes are streaming from the hot soup, but a playful quirks his freckled brow. 

“I don’t know, my dear. Is it working?” 

Aziraphale knows that he’s walking a fine line. He reaches across the table and brushes Crowley’s mouth with a silken napkin. It has the effect he was hoping for: Crowley gulps, blushes, and ducks his head. His eyes flutter beautifully. 

“Temptation accomplished, Angel.” 

He is smiling. Then, laughing. 

And Aziraphale finds himself laughing, too. 

>>>


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kiss, kiss, fall in love!

>>>

The beach has been almost completely obliterated by the time they reach the top of the sandy hills. The long, winding deck that zig-zags its way down to the crest of Nag’s Head is now broken apart or submerged in water. One of the signs--which advises swimmers not to dive deep, lest they be carried away with the currents--has been bent, uprooted, and rests unhappily in a tangle under the gazebo’s roof. 

“This is Mr. Aziraphale Z. Fell, reporting live from Hurricane Adam on our northeastern border.” 

He struggles to keep the smile on his face. The wind stings his arms and chest with cold bullets of rain, and it is leaving him feeling exposed and needled. 

“I’m here in North Carolina, observing real-time the damage that’s been done by Adam in a popular vacation area. As you can see, the walkway which tourists typically take to the beach has been dismantled by heavy wind, waves, and rain.” 

Aziraphale squints. He is under the gazebo’s shelter, and has a rain-hood pulled over his eyes, but the storm raging around him makes it hard to keep focus.  _ How does Crowley do this all day, every day?!  _ He longs for the quaint, welcome warmth of the set, coffee pot bubbling and fresh doughnuts ready. 

“But, of course: the loss of this storm is far more than the structure of a beloved, well-traveled tourist destination.” Aziraphale blinks water out from his eyes. “A great many people have become vulnerable, injured, and homeless. You will not see them here on this beach, because everyone far and near has been evacuated to a less dangerous area. But there is no where not-dangerous.” 

_ Is that still rain, or my tears?  _

“Relief efforts are being weighed down by the sheer number of current intakes. At the current rate, medical requests are not fully able to be met, and a great number of the refugees are becoming ill for lack of sufficient clothing or protection.” 

Aziraphale gulps.

This isn’t safe. Aziraphale isn’t used to being under the dark, dangerous, expansive sky. He is used to providing the people with  _ cheer,  _ not facing the  _ desolation _ of the world-head on. It is one thing to offer hope when you are safe and sound; it’s quite another to be in the midst of the storm and to say that all things shall be well. 

Crowley cocks his head from behind the camera so that one their eyes meet. His gaze is filled with unspoken, unmistakable heartache--as if he knows and feels what Aziraphale is going through. He’s been there.  _ Are you okay?  _ That gaze says. 

Aziraphale gives a shuddering exhale. 

“All signs of Adam indicate that the storm will continue to be a devastation on all in the area until at least next week. Everyone located in coastal Carolina is advised to continue inland, and, if possible, make arrangements to stay long-term with friends or family in the central states. Cleanup and repair is going to take some time.” 

He feels his lip tremble.  _ How is he supposed to handle this?  _ Imagining so many sick, frightened people, particularly people like Crowley, who have no family to whom they might return--makes him feel ill. 

From behind the camera, Crowley lifts a hand in a gesture. _ Are you okay? You still want to keep going?  _

Aziraphale shakes rain from his eyes. He  _ has  _ to do this, precisely for the people like Crowley. Or even more vulnerable than Crowley, without jobs, houses or education to provide security in times of danger. 

“Anyone and everyone who is able to help should look into donations at this time.” Aziraphale says firmly. Crowley’s hand stills in the air; he knows that Aziraphale is going off-script. “If you can get to a blood bank to share blood or plasma, do it. If you can contribute to assistance organizations such as World Relief, Red Cross, or other trustworthy fundraising: do it. If you yourself are someone who has means of offering shelter, providing goodwill, or sending physical supplies: do it. Your fellow people need your support.” 

Crowley’s hands are still holding the camera upon the tripod steadily, but his mouth is slightly hanging open now. He is staring at Aziraphale with unvarnished, appreciative awe. As a set rule, weather stations are  _ never  _ supposed to exhort for participation; it is often seen as soliciting, and can quickly lose guilty viewers (and, of course: one’s job). But Aziraphale has dug in his heels, and won’t budge: people are in  _ need  _ of their help. And he  _ knows  _ he has listeners. There is somebody, somewhere, who can  _ do  _ something about this. 

He can. 

“Dear ones: I care so very much for you. I urge you to cary for your everyman. When a catastrophe happens in our nation--our  _ world-- _ it is our humane responsibility to reach out and care for those who are in need. It impacts us everywhere.” 

Crowley’s eyes are shining, and his cheeks are flushed. He is looking at Aziraphale as though he thinks he is the most beautiful thing that he’s ever encountered. 

“This is where I will leave you for the night.” Aziraphale says. “As always: stay safe, stay healthy, and stay sane out there. You are  _ loved. _ ” 

Aziraphale knows now that those are indeed tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“This is Aziraphale, reporting for Celestial Station and Brimstone Weather Corps. See you in the morning, bright and early.” 

The camera light blinks from green to red, and Aziraphale casts his rain shield aside. Crowley hurriedly packs his camera into his back, swearing and fumbling it with his hands. 

“Aziraphale!” He says, hurrying forward. “Aziraphale! Are you okay? We don’t have to submit that. Or say anything. But,  _ Angel:  _ you were  _ brilliant!  _ And--” 

Aziraphale steps into Crowley’s space. He can feel the warm air of the other man’s breath near his face. 

_ “Send it.” _ He says, placing his hands over Crowley’s. With the gentlest force, he pushes the green button down underneath Crowley’s fingers, instantly exporting the raw footage back to headquarters. “Send it, Crowley. They need to know.” 

Crowley stares at Aziraphale with unvarnished admiration. “Angel--” he begins. 

Aziraphale stops him. 

He pulls Crowley’s hood back from his face, places both of his hands firmly on either side of his angular jaw, and kisses him, passionately and soundly. 

_ “Oh!!” _ Crowley says , breaking the kiss with a gasping surprise. His eyes are rather wild. “Oh! Oh,  _ God,  _ A-angel, I--” 

Aziraphale dives in for another kiss, and this time, Crowley returns it with enthusiasm. As the volume and pressure of the storm beats around them, Aziraphale feels the storm chaser trembling beneath his touch. He suspects it has nothing to do with the cold. Still, Aziraphale pulls Crowley close, until the line of their bodies is flush and tight together. 

“ _ Crowley _ .” Aziraphale breathes, reverently. “You  _ wonderful  _ human.” 

He had not intended to seduce the man; in fact, he had been working avidly to avoid the impulse. Crowley is new to him--even though their strong bond and attraction was clear, even though he feels that he knows him deeply. Crowley clearly has a long history of repressed issues, and he is in sore need of a steady therapist; but Aziraphale  _ wants.  _

_ Good LORD,  _ does he want!

He hungrily works his tongue between Crowley’s lips. 

“ _ Fuck!”  _ Crowley gasps, releasing Aziraphale. 

His arms flail back, a bit like a windmill, in order to brace himself against the back of the rain-soaked gazebo. 

“ _ GOD,  _ Aziraphale! You are--I think--” 

Aziraphale closes the gap and presses himself into Crowley’s lean figure. When the other man dissolves into heaving moans, he begins to work at the top zipper of his heavy raincoat, until he can begin to kiss and suck at Crowley’s  _ beautiful  _ expanse of neck.

Crowley makes a sound like a wounded animal, and rakes his fingernails into Aziraphale’s hair. If he wasn’t enjoying this so much, the weatherman would wince: Crowley’s fingernails are long and sharp, and they dig like knives into his scalp. 

“H-how did you--” 

Crowley’s words are cut off as a cell phone buzzes angrily between them. Aziraphale reluctantly pauses, and Crowley reaches into his breast pocket to pull out the offending material. 

There are three new messages: 

1 OF 2 MESSAGES, 8:08 PM (EST): FOOTAGE IS BRILLIANT. COULD NOT HAVE ASKED FOR ANYTHING BETTER. YOU TWO MAKE A GREAT PAIR. --BLZBUB

2 OF 2 MESSAGES, 8:09 PM (EST): P.S. : BRACE YOURSELF. --BLZBUB

1 MESSAGE, 8:10 PM (EST): YOU’RE BOTH FIRED. --GABRIEL

>>>


	6. Chapter 6

>>>

Nothing serves as a buzzkill quite like losing your job of nearly a decade. 

“You doing okay?” 

Crowley is ruffling a towel through his shoulder-length, flame-red hair. He is gazing at Aziraphale with poorly-masked concern. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

Aziraphale is sitting on his bed, cross-legged, in his flannel pajamas. He is  _ finally _ warming up a bit. Before going out into the storm, he had  _ thought _ that he’d been prepared to handle standing out in the chill of the wind and rain in order get that footage with Crowley. But now, as the physical ( _ not to mention, vocational! _ ) fallout is setting in, he’s quickly and firmly being reminded that actions have their own consequences.

“Get you another mug of cocoa?” Crowley asks. He drops the sodden towel over the back of a hotel chair. “Another blanket, perhaps?

“No, thank you.” Aziraphale sighs. “But I do appreciate your caring, my dear. That’s very thoughtful.” 

He observes Crowley. The long, lanky storm chaser has sat down on the edge of his bed. He seems to be huddled inward, wrapping his skinny arms around his chest, in what looks like a protective and sheltering gesture. Aziraphale wonders if the other man is feeling as uncertain as he is--about the work, the  _ kiss,  _ everything. 

“What about you, my friend?” He asks gently. “This has all been quite a lot. May I offer you something? 

Crowley glances over at Aziraphale. In his honey-gold eyes, Aziraphale senses a look of deep sadness. 

“Um, yeah.” Crowley says. “If you’re offering…” He rubs one arm self-consciously. “Sit with me?” 

Aziraphale is filled with a rush of concern and affection. He  _ adores  _ this quiet, kind man. How he’s lived and worked for so long at Celestial Station without running into him-- _ Ah.  _ There it is.  _ Celestial Station.  _ The reality of his no-longer job returns, and Aziraphale winces. 

He catches Crowley’s eyes widening, and the storm chaser quickly lifts his hands. 

“No! No! You don’t  _ have  _ to!” He says, turning red. “I d-don’t mean to make you uncomfortable! I--” 

Aziraphale rises from his bed and strides over to Crowley. He sits down firmly, and throws his blanket around his shoulders and head.

“Oh,  _ dear  _ Crowley!” He says, wrapping the blanket snugly around them. “Your presence would  _ never  _ make me feel uncomfortable. I was only thinking a bit about work.” 

Crowley blushes again, and leans the line of his shoulder into Aziraphale’s.

“Good  _ LORD _ !” Aziraphale cries, nearly jumping away from the icy prick of his skin. “Crowley, do you have  _ hypothermia?  _ You are positively  _ freezing!”  _

He busies himself with bundling more blankets around the pair of them. Crowley shivers violently, and sighs as Aziraphale’s hands brush over his skin. Where his own body is soft and rounded, Crowley himself is thin and angular. It feels unusual, but not  _ bad  _ to stroke his hands over the firmness of bones just under his skin. 

“I was pretty cold, yeah.” Crowley admits, thin lips tugging into a smile as Aziraphale’s hands flutter to rest. 

“But I’m starting to feel much better, now. As it is.” 

He glances down, where their hands are now laced together, then looks back up at Aziraphale through his long, dark eyelashes. 

Aziraphale experiences another intense rush of affection. 

“Well, next time, dear boy.” Aziraphale says, dropping their linked hands into his lap, “You must tell me so, at once. And do not delay.” 

“Noted.” 

The long line of their arms, legs and hips are pressed together. Aziraphale can feel the chill of Crowley’s body leeching away his heat, but it’s pleasant to feel the other man’s temperature leveling out. He sighs with contentment and snuggles in deeper into what has become a blanketed nest. 

“You were saying something about work.” Crowley prompts, gazing at Aziraphale with renewed concern. “Are you worried about no longer having a job at Celestial Station?”

Aziraphale pauses to consider this. If someone had told him earlier today that he would lose his job, he would have certainly expected to feel some emotions: range, disappointment, confusion, sadness. However, he feels more  _ numb  _ than anything. Or, perhaps...if he prods it...a bit of  _ relief?  _

“I...think I’m okay, actually.” Aziraphale says, finding himself surprised at the idea. “This doesn’t mean the end of my career. It just means I’ll no longer answer to Gabriel.” 

At this, Crowley beams, and Aziraphale finds himself returning the smile. 

“It will be pleasant not to deal with his tantrums.” 

“You said it!” Crowley laughs. He bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale.

“But I do wonder who will be on the receiving end when L’Arche discovers that he has nothing to present for the 9-0-clock news.” Aziraphale says.  The thought makes him twinge with sympathy.  _ Who would catch the wrath? Someone new and powerless, like Michael?  _ “I don’t envy them.” 

Crowley nods with regret. “Yeah.” He agrees. “Yeah, they’re going to have a lot to sort out at the station.” 

“There’ll be paperwork.” Aziraphale agrees. “Offing us both.” 

When he grows quiet, Crowley says softly: “Not both of us, Angel.” 

Aziraphale looks at him quickly. “What do you mean?” 

“Let’s face it:  _ one  _ of us cannot afford to be lost here. You...you’re gonna be just fine.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes range up and down Crowley’s dejected face.

“Stop that.” He says. “We  _ both  _ are. I know--we both know--that you’re very good at what you do. Celestial doesn’t hire people who cannot carry their own weight.” 

Crowley winces. 

“Sure, I’m good. But you? You’re  _ brilliant.”  _

Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue, but Crowley waves him with impatience. 

“Field reporters like me? We’re a dime a dozen. However,  _ weather anchors  _ like you...people  _ know  _ you.  _ Watch  _ you.  _ Listen  _ to you. You’re a part of their day. They’ve gotten familiar.”

“Well.” Aziraphale hesitates, “I’m not sure about that--”

“--I’m sure.” Crowley interrupts firmly. “People look  _ forward  _ to hearing you, you know, Angel. Every day, somebody out there wakes up, and waits for you. They know that you’re there--your voice, your smile, hell, even your cheesy signoff--to remind them that there’s--there's--someone in this world who cares. That there’s still some hope in the world, even when it rains.”

Aziraphale is staring at Crowley now, who looks as though he is close to tears. 

“Without that...W-without that touchstone...” 

Crowley seems to be slowing down. He’s realizing the sort of things that he’s saying now, and it’s making his voice grow gradually softer. Ultimately, he comes to a shaky halt. 

Aziraphale lets the quiet linger. As Crowley gives another shiver next to him, he waits to see if he will say more. Then--

“I’m good, Aziraphale. But  _ you.  _ You’re:... _ irreplaceable.”  _

When they meet eyes, storm-blue to gold, Aziraphale can see every bit of the longing and loneliness Crowley is carrying. 

_ Has been  _ carrying. 

Should not have to carry. 

“Dear heart…” Aziraphale begins, lifting one hand to cup Crowley’s chin. 

_ How long has this man followed me and my program?  _ He wonders.  _ How much of this, today, has  _ not _ been one-sided?  _

Crowley had admitted, upon their first night of acquaintance, that he’d been a long-time fan of Aziraphale’s program; but  _ here _ is something  _ much  _ more vulnerable, much more intimate, being admitted. Even with words unsaid, Aziraphale hears between Crowley’s words to his meaning, and the raw reality of it makes his heart ache. 

“Crowley…. _ Dear Crowley _ . Could you not...have you not...is it ever...”

The storm chaser turns his head and whispers his words into Aziraphale’s hand. 

_ “...I’d be lost without you.” _

>>>

For the first time in days, the wind and rain is quiet and still. 

Crowley lies on his side of the bed-- _ their  _ bed--and listens to Aziraphale’s steady breathing. The soft push of his thick, curly-haired belly swells behind him, pressing into the ridges of his spine and hips. Not once does the weatherman flinch away; even deep in sleep, he is telling Crowley, over and over, that he belongs with him. 

Earlier that evening--after his painful admission, his gut-wracking tears, and his weatherman kissing each one of them clean--Crowley had helped Aziraphale pushed their two beds together as one in the hotel. And, after wrapping his thick, warm arms around him, Aziraphale had murmured and prayed and whispered to Crowley all evening, stroking strong and gentle hands through his hair, breathing words of reassurance and tender affection. Crowley had fallen asleep that way: being held by Aziraphale, told that he was worthy, and cared for, and good. 

This strangeness of being held is a sacred one. Crowley cannot even count how many nights that he’s slept out alone under the stars; but he  _ can  _ count how many times he’s felt like he is  _ home,  _ and  _ belongs,  _ and has someone  _ wanting him.  _ It’s so much better than he could have ever expected. It’s so much  _ more  _ than he would have asked for. 

From behind him, Aziraphale stirs in his sleep. 

“You awake?” 

The sound of his voice--that same warmth and loving he’d memorized so many times, over such long distances, so far away--is the same, but different. It’s  _ personal _ . It’s for  _ him.  _

“Mm. Sorta.” 

Aziraphale presses his lips to the back of Crowley’s neck, just above the neck of his shirt. Even though his lips are soft and warm in their feather-light touch, Crowley shivers. 

“You should get some rest, love.” 

_ Love.  _

Crowley closes his eyes, and soaks in the feeling and sound and thought of Aziraphale. Truth is--he doesn’t  _ want  _ to go to sleep. If he sleeps, this night  _ ends.  _ And, if it ends…Crowley does not want to think about that. He may never be his lucky again. 

Aziraphale’s lips brush lightly against his ear.

“What are you thinking of?” 

Crowley hesitates. 

“Gabriel.” 

“Ugh!” Aziraphale laughs, drawing his mouth back from Crowley’s neck with distaste. “My dear! You could do better.” 

The storm chaser chuckles softly, rolling over to face Aziraphale. Even at night, tousled by sleep, his angel is radiant: rosy-red lips; long, curling eyelashes.  _ How did I get here?  _

“Not like  _ that. _ ” Crowley says, bumping his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “About work. About what I’m going to do about my occupation next.” 

Aziraphale is quiet. 

Crowley gets the feeling that he is being carefully studied and examined behind the depth of those vivid blue eyes. 

“It’s a valid thing to worry about.” he replies finally. “But, perhaps, not at this hour. It’s  _ late  _ Crowley.” 

“It’s  _ early.”  _ Crowley says, letting his own eyes close. 

It's true: the clock reads nearly 3-o-clock in the morning. They hadn't fallen into bed until well after midnight. In the midst of the sounds of the storm, the warmth of the blankets, and the comfort of Aziraphale, Crowley hadn't bothered to care whether it was night or day, hell or heaven, reality or imagination. 

For a few minutes, the pair of them say nothing. They simply share their warm breathing space together. Then: 

“You  _ know.”  _ Crowley says, the idea alighting. “If I  _ really  _ wanted to stick it to Gabriel. I could always go and work for Mx. Beelzebub.” 

When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is blinking amusedly back at him. 

“That  _ would  _ bother him.” the weatherman replies thoughtfully. “But I don’t fancy working for Brimstone. Not really.” 

Crowley raises one eyebrow. 

“Why not?” He asks. “Not good enough for you, eh? Too much of a fall from grace?” 

Aziraphale snorts.

“That’s not it at all. I just think...well. I’d rather start over somewhere  _ small.  _ Maybe, small-town rural? I could work for a station where I would get to know everybody. Especially my co-workers. Not go for years without meeting somebody handsome and fabulous.” 

He winks an eye meaningfully at Crowley, who blushes. 

“Starting over?” Crowley asks. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for that, Angel."

Now it's Aziraphale's turn to raise his eyebrows. 

"I think I  _ like  _ the big-city rush. I like...taking high-paying, high-stakes assignments. I like... _ adventure. _ And…” 

He trails off, thinking that, even though he _does_ like these things, how much he also _hates_ being alone on the road. How the narratives he’s had to form and recite to himself have been the only balm to chase away sadness in the face of achievement. _Had it really got him anywhere?_

“And." He feels a lump in his throat. "Unlike you, I can't guarantee that I’d be wanted elsewhere.” 

There is a shifting of the bed. When Crowley looks up, he sees Aziraphale’s eyes melting with sadness and concern. The other man unearths a hand from underneath the covers, where their fingers had still been twined together, and begins to stroke them over Crowley’s forehead. 

Crowley closes his eyes as Aziraphale trails his hand over his chin, lets it come to rest on his neck behind his head. 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs, sounding heartbroken and tired. “Where on _earth_ did you learn to hate yourself like that?” 

He tilts Crowley’s head, until, once again, their foreheads brush together. Crowley steadies himself enough to find a breathing rhythm with Aziraphale, and they stay there a while in the warm space they share. 

Eventually, Aziraphale adds: “Crowley. You’re not only _excellent_ at what you do; you’re _remarkable."_

Crowley clenches his teeth.

"No, no, _listen._ I’ve _rarely_ met someone with as much raw talent as you. But, more importantly? You have _compassion._ Loads of it. You’re a _good man,_ Crowley. Your heart, your softness: it’s is what makes you truly outstanding.” 

Through his pleasure and embarrassment, Crowley’s eyes flutter open. Somehow, no matter how outlandish these words sounds, he can tell from looking into Aziraphale's gaze that the other means every word of it. 

"Really? Yeah?" 

“ _Yes._ Rest assured, Crowley, that you are _worthy._ That you are _loved._ And know, dear heart, that I will not leave you...unless you want me to.” 

_ This  _ statement thrashes at Crowley’s attention. 

“What?” He says, breathless, hardly daring to believe his ears. “You...want to _work_ with me?” 

It's too good to believe. What could _possibly_ be as magical as working side-by-side with Aziraphale? To see him every day, to hear that loving voice, see that gentle smile--

“Work with you. Stay with you. Be your best friend.” 

Aziraphale says this steadily--as though it is the most simple, commonplace thing in the world, and not an undying profession of love. " We could start our own station. Work on everything together. Be on our own side, as it were.” 

Crowley stares at Aziraphale.

"If you'll have me?" 

Crowley feels, once again, as though his heart has reached the breaking point: raced, exploded, and stopped.  _ Could...could he be a mind-reader? ! Could he  _ really  _ understand how deeply, how desperately, I wanted this? _ Needed _this?_ He _ cannot  _ possibly _ mean what I think he's saying...he can't... _

Aziraphale rubs his nose against Crowley’s. 

“Dear? How about...Let’s talk about this again in the morning. If you like, we can make some plans. Okay?” 

Crowley feels like his head is spinning. 

“Sure." He manages. "Sure, Angel. Okay.” 

He feels like his heart might be bursting with joy. 

Aziraphale hums, and he plants a dry, warm kiss against Crowley’s lips. 

“Good. Get some sleep, dear.”

As Aziraphale settles down into bed, once again drawing Crowley's body close to him, Anthony J. Crowley feels as though he has stepped out from the dark and into the brightest day of sunshine in the whole history of the world. 

>>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, folks. It turned out much more sweet (and less steamy!) then I was expecting. But if you're still up for some smut, please feel free to check out my other works, particularly "The Magician's Apprentice" for some sexy action...Cheers!

>>>

The next morning, the calls had eventually came. Aziraphale had promptly turned down Gabriel’s invitation--which turned into Gabriel’s  _ desperate demand-- _ to return to Celestial Station headquarters. Crowley, of course, had received notification from Hastur that Mx. Beelzebub wanted to bring him on, and was delighted that he was parting with Gabriel. On his part, however, Crowley thanked Brimstone Corps. for their offer, and had told them that he was going in another direction. 

For them, that direction was westward. Aziraphale, true to his word, had packed up his desk and left immediately with his new partner, Crowley. There wasn’t much on their end to do for paperwork; Aziraphale and Crowley were now free to apply anywhere and everywhere they saw fit. As it turns out, many weather stations were happy to interview for a new weatherman, and the offers did not run short for a new field reporter or storm chaser with such a great record. In the end, they settled in a quiet, northeastern corner of the Dakotas: near enough to the large cities to travel, and yet, far enough away that they would not be bothered. 

Aziraphale purchased for them a lovely and rustic lakeside cabin; Crowley spends most of his vacation days fishing and lounging about in the rocky sand. 

It’s a typical day, at the end of the week, and Aziraphale smiles at his desk before the camera. The station is small, ( _ if you can call it a station):  _ their one, large room is divided by collapsable walls, and outfitted with a hand-me-down camera. There are signs and markings still on the floor, from when this building was once a supermarket location. Even though Crowley sweeps every week about half a dozen times, there is always loose gravel and flies on the floor. But the company is kind, the pay is reasonable, and their voices are the only ones on the station. 

“Well, that about wraps it up!” Aziraphale says, shuffling his piles of papers. “Looks like it won’t be long until our farmers can get back out in the fields. For those of you who have been hoping to combine: get out there! It’s going to be a  _ great  _ week of sunshine!” 

He flashes a smile, and Crowley gives him a black-painted thumbs-up. 

“This marks the conclusion of today’s weather report. As always: stay safe, stay healthy, and stay sane out there! You are  _ loved.  _ And I’ll see you all tomorrow morning: bright and early.” 

The red light blinks, and Crowley shuts the camera off. 

“Well done, you!” He says, striding over. He is making a point of swaying his angular hips, aiming for more of an arrogant sunter. “I truly have the most  _ dashing  _ husband in the world!” 

Aziraphale gives a half-hearted wave of false modesty. Thi makes Crowley smile even wider, and, as he approaches, he wraps his arms ever more tightly around his weatherman.

“ _ Fiend!”  _ Aziraphale laughs. The feeling of his giggling chest blooms joy in Crowley’s beating heart. He leans down and kisses the round of Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“Got any plans after this, you fine thing?” the weatherman asks, running his hands through Crowley’s long hair. 

“I should probably stop by the store. Make sure we have enough eggs. I wanted to make crepes again, since you seemed to like that.” 

Aziraphale’s blue eyes are sparkling. 

“I did!” 

He gives Crowley and up-and-down look. 

“But,  _ wait.  _ Are you trying to tempt me, my dear Crowley?”

“Is it working?” 

“Oh,  _ yes! _ ” 

Crowley dips and kisses Aziraphale soundly, letting his lips linger there. It’s been many years, but the novelty of kissing his beautiful weatherman has not been lost--not  _ once _ , not in a singular day. 

“In that case.” Crowley says, drawing his head back enough just to whisper in Aziraphale’s ear, “I should probably get some... _ other  _ supplies while I am out.” 

Aziraphale laughs. He smacks Crowley playfully on his shoulder. 

“We  _ are  _ running low.” He replies evenly, as Crowley hoists him once more up to standing. “Can’t imagine  _ why,  _ though. _ ”  _ He adds coyly. 

“Can’t imagine.” Crowley agrees, giving Aziraphale one last kiss. “Meet you at home?”

“Okay.” 

>>>

Crowley thinks that he must be the most  _ happy  _ person in the world. The days without Aziraphale seem far away now: here, today, there are  _ years _ and years of happy memories and time together, while working side-by-side in their own, peaceful world. Yes: one and a while, the small-town bigotry scratches at the smooth surface. But it’s  _ nothing  _ compared to the wonder he feels. There’s  _ nothing  _ that can rupture the bubble of gratitude that he carries with him as he spends every day of life with his best friend. 

“Hello, Anthony!” 

A woman at the store is waving at him. Dark-haired and friendly, she is one of the regulars at the local coffeeshop where Crowley works part-time while Aziraphale teaches.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Pulcifer.” He returns, smiling as she walks over to him. “How are Newt and the children?” 

“Awful, as usual!” She grins at him. “Newt prepared us this  _ spectacular _ anniversary dinner, and  _ then, _ Adam got in--” she rolls her eyes. “Well, you  _ know _ how he is. Might as well be the antichrist, the  _ messes  _ he makes.”

_ Oh, he knows! He’s babysat for them _ .

“He’s quite the devil!” Crowley agrees.  _ (Privately, he is grateful that neither he nor Aziraphale wants to have children.)  _ “But a loveable one.” 

“Right. But I had to come back here for seconds.”

She eyes the contents of Crowley’s basket. 

“Mmm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were getting ready for an anniversary yourself!” she says, winking at him. 

Crowley gasps, pretending to be affronted. 

“My good lady!” He uses an overdone imitation of Aziraphale. “How  _ uncouth  _ of you to gaze upon another man’s basket!” 

The pair of them laugh.Indeed, if Crowley had wanted to be covert, he ought to have gone to the local gas station (or driven an hour out away from their tiny town); among his items are champaign, strawberries, a carton of eggs, heavy whipping cream, and condoms. 

“I hope you’re not going to mix those together.” She says, eyeing them doubtfully. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You just never know what to expect from The Gays.” He replies sweetly. “Have a nice day, won’t you?” 

“Bye, Crowley!” She laughs, shaking her head. As she walks away, she adds: “Say hi to Aziraphale for us!” 

>>>

It’s getting late in the afternoon, almost turning into golden-red evening, when Crowley arrives home. He pulls up the long, gravel driveway of their road with the wheels of his Bentley spitting out rocks. The house is a home:  _ thier  _ home, and it’s  _ beautiful. _ It’s nestled cozily into a thatch of pine trees, and in the fading summer sunlight, it looks like it might be fresh out of a painting. All around the house, Crowley has done vibrant gardening: black-eyed Susans, geraniums, angel-leaves, thistles. It’s an erratic collection, but somehow it all goes together perfectly. ( _ Aziraphale often fondly calls it ‘Eden’ _ ). 

“Hello!” Crowley calls, feet kicking up small puffs of dust as he walks. “Angel? I’m home!” 

A fat, long-haired cat wanders out from the bushes. When it spots Crowley, it putters towards him on squashy, short legs, its tail raising high up in the air. 

“Well, hullo, there, Gabriel.” Crowley says fondly, picking up the right ugly thing. “Getting yourself into any trouble?” He scratches at the chin of the ornery cat, and it gives a rumbly and satisfied purr.

“Best boss we’ve ever had.” Aziraphale grins, leaning against the doorway. 

He’s changed out of his dapper suit ( _ even out here, where people wear denim trousers, he insists on being  _ exclusively  _ well-dressed) _ and is wearing cut-off khaki pants and tartan dress-shirt. “Welcome home, love.” 

Crowley stops in the doorway to drop a kiss on top of Aziraphale’s head, and deposits Gabriel the cat onto the threshold. “Happy anniversary,” he replies, extending the store’s cheap plastic bag into Aziraphale’s waiting arms.

“Oh, you  _ shouldn’t  _ have.” his husband replies dryly, receiving the handful of groceries ungratefully. “But what took you so long?” 

“Saw Anathema.” Crowley shrugs, stepping into the kitchen. It’s bright, well-organized, and painted a lovely, eggshell blue with white cabinets ( _ All Aziraphale’s touches _ ). 

“Sounds like Adam is being a terror again.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale sighs, sitting down at the table with the pack of strawberries. “I  _ really  _ don’t look forward to when I’ll have him in my English class.” 

Crowley laughs and takes the eggs from the satchel. He opens the fridge and depositing them. 

“When he does, you’ll be  _ lovely.  _ As you always are.” Crowley reassures. 

When he opens his hand to receive the strawberries, Aziraphale is preoccupied. “Angel?” 

“What’s this?” Aziraphale says, inspecting the fresh box of condoms. “We’ve been married for nearly seven years, and we haven't used these in  _ ages.  _ Something you’re trying to tell me?”

Crowley grins, leaning over the back of Aziraphale’s chair. “Thought it might be romantic.” he says, puckering his waiting lips. 

“Romantic!” Aziraphale laughs, kissing him. “Rubbers are now, for an anniversary present, suitably romantic?”

“No.” Crowley smiles, rubbing his nose on Aziraphale’s. “But  _ this  _ is: I’m taking you out tonight. on the lake, under the stars, for a private picnic with kissing and crepes. Thought that it might be prudent, as you say, to have something available since there won’t be a shower.” 

Aziraphale looks like he might just skip right to his orgasm there. 

“There’s a lake.” He suggests. 

“A lake!” Crowley laughs, and he kisses Aziraphale again. “Sure, Angel. We can go night-swimming." 

In truth, their lake wasn’t ideal for swimming; in general, lakes good for fishing are often green, and have silt-coated bottoms. Normally, Aziraphale wouldn’t touch it. 

“If you’re lucky,” he adds, “We could even go skinny dipping.”

Delightfully flustered, Aziraphale pushes his chair back from the table. 

“Well! Why didn’t you  _ say  _ so, my dear?” He walks towards the doorway of their bedroom. “I’ll go and get us some blankets prepared.” 

“Good. I’ll make crepes.” 

Aziraphale pauses in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. He smiles at Crowley lovingly, and all the warmth and brightness of a summer sunshine radiates from him. Crowley does not think he has seen anything so lovely, so comforting, in all of his life. 

“I love you, Crowley.”

“And  _ I  _ love  _ you, _ Aziraphale.” 

>>>

  
  


END.

>>>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It means a LOT to me to write stuff like this, and even more to know that people read it. Stories like Good Omens have saved my life, and I write things like this with all of my heart. Drop a comment or kudos to let me know if it's something you also enjoyed. Peace. <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it so far! Please leave a comment or kudo to let me know what you think. <3


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